Stories Far Less Told
by PoodlePop
Summary: A series of short stories around the WW2 era. All Canonverse. Various pairings. An Anthology if you will. Rated M for themes and Adult scenes at a later date.
1. Chapter 1 Letters

**- Chapter 1 – Letters -**

**AN: I don't pretend to be some genius on WW2 and the events around it, I just research it a little for my fics so for any historical inaccuracy I am sorry. ;3;**

**/-/**

**January 24th 1944**

_Dear Elizaveta Héderváry..._

Scratch that.

_Hungary_

No. Wrong feel.

_Yo Lizzy_

Far too informal.

_Eliza..._

Yes.

_Eliza..._

Now words, come on Gilbert, words.

_How're things?_

Not quite love letter material, but come on, he'd look ridiculous if he went into full blown soppy like half of the men in his squad. He wouldn't be seen that way, longing after a girl a thousand miles away. He wasn't a sap. He hadn't saved his heart for her, locked it away and sworn he'd go to her one day, when things were less complicated and they'd make up for all that lost time.

Except he had, and he would.

_The western front is getting a bit sketchy, word is the allies are planning an attack on either the French or Spanish coast. But you probably already knew that. _

_The Squad I've been left charge of is a reasonable one, got a bit of experience under their belts, all fine strapping young Germans of course, they remind me of Lud before he managed to build up all those muscles and... I'm probably boring you._

_Still not quite used to this new battle style. All this open trench unorganised stuff, kind of forgot what it was like. I mean it's all very similar to the way we used to fight back when, yeah. _

_I'm making a pigs ear of this letter, aren't i? I just wanted to write to tell you..._

What? What did he want to tell her? He had to decide, he was running out of paper and he couldn't exactly scratch it out.

_Just don't worry about me okay? I'll be fine._

_Gilbert Beillschmidt_

He folded the letter, sliding it away inside the cigarette case so he could give it to the messenger later before pulling out one of the slim fingers of tobacco and lighting it. There was a thunder above that for once wasn't the roar of planes or bombs.

"Looks like rain, Birdie."

/-/

**January 31****st**** 1944**

"Nurse Héderváry. Come on there are patients that need to be tended."

Elizaveta, the once great kingdom of Hungary, folded the telegram with a smile. He really never changed; always stumbling about like an idiot, not knowing what he was doing and never stopping to think about it either. A younger her could have mistaken his bumbling nature for purposeful patronisation and spite. In fact she was certain that's what she did, events casting a rift between the two of them that they were only just mending now.

She put the folded telegram in the pocket of her apron, hands moving up to her hair to adjust the pins and make sure they were still holding everything in place. She wasn't wearing it down any more, kept out of the way to make sure it didn't get in the way of her work. Every day more and more men came into the make shift ward. There were shell blast wounds, burns, gas victims, men who would never walk again, men who would never see again.

The stench was the worst.

Some of the wounded who came through hadn't been treated for weeks, and even when they had it was the make shift work of field medics, men who were barely trained. Gangrene was a recurring problem, filling the hospital with the smell of rotting flesh, which really added to the warm aroma of vomit too. Sometimes Elizaveta felt that she was working for a butcher, not a hospital.

There was one occasion where Hungary had come across a man who she could have mistaken for Austria, were it not for his deep brown eyes that matched his hair. He'd been submitted to the ward with heavy burn wounds after he'd attempted to save one of the soldiers under his charge from a burning tank, in his attempt to put out the fire on his comrade, his coat had come aflame. There were bandages all over his arms and a little on his face, but his hands. Elizaveta had to take a long break after she'd changed the bandages. The muscle on his fingers had near entirely been burnt away were the leather on his gloves had fused to the skin. He'd never play piano that was for sure.

It was that moment that she got in contact with Gilbert. Her relationship with Austria had ended over two decades ago, and whilst she still cared for Roderich dearly she knew that there was nothing left of the love they once felt for each other. The endless rows and the drift between the two of them in the lead up to 1918 essentially signed the death certificate of their feelings toward one another. No, she chose to get back in touch with Gilbert because of the ache that was present in her chest when she thought of the chances of any of her close friends in the state that the men came to the field hospital in.

Every man she looked at were no longer their individual people, but visions of the countries they were part of. Italians looked like little Feliciano, Germans like Ludwig and Prussians, well.

The head nurse asked her to take the weekend off and get her head straightened out or leave the hospital after she broke down at the bedside of a young Italian soldier she swore was no older than 17. She was no help to anyone in that condition.

And so, she'd written her first letter to Gilbert.

She should have trusted the man to beat her to it.

_Gilbert_

_You're an idiot. _

_By the time this reaches you, you have probably already received one of my telegrams. You'll be utterly confused no doubt; you'll have that idiotic confused smile on your face. I hope the boys laugh at you for that, it's what I'd do in their place. Of course this also means I'll receive one after I've sent this one too, but I can always wait until you send me another after this, then we'll finally be on the same page, okay?_

_Still, it's nice to hear you're okay. Though I hope you realise I'll be able to tell if you're lying, there are benefits to working on a field hospital..._

_Nothing good is going to come of this, you know? This war is only going to end the way the last one did. I don't care what your bosses say, wars aren't fought the way they used to be. Do you think they'll be any nicer than last time if you lose? Do you think it'll make you feel any better if you get to make your own treaty of Versailles for them? I just... I know what's happening out there, I see it come in to the hospital every day. I wish you boys would just get it together and realise you're being ridiculous.._

_I'll stop getting on your case about it. You probably get enough of this from the troops. _

_Stay safe okay? _

_Eliza x_

/-/

**February 15****th**** 1944**

_Dear Eliza,_

_I finally got that letter, I feel like an idiot now. Just forget everything I wrote in the others okay?_

_And for your information the guys totally didn't laugh at me, they'd never do that, you know why? Because I don't pull stupid faces, especially over your stupid letters._

_Okay not stupid. I didn't mean that._

_In fact, I really like your letters. It's a nice change from a lot of the things on the front. It's a reminder of what's waiting back at home. Not that I'm insinuating that you're in a house waiting for me back home with dinner on the stove like some wife! I'm just saying. It reminds me of the peace._

_I think you'd kick my ass if I ever tried to get you to do that anyway. _

_You know as well as I do now that we're in too deep for us to get out of this war without a scratch. The only way we're going to get through this is either by winning or being dragged down kicking and screaming. You know as well as I do there's no glory in defeat, and there's even less sympathy. We'd be signing our own death warrants if we surrendered now. Like hell am I condemning Ludwig to that fate, especially after 1806. _

_Still, I'd do anything to go back to that peace. Do you think we would have still tried to make up if the war hadn't happened? I hope so. I'd hate for you to still hate me, especially because I never meant for you to hate me in the first place. That was the last thing I wanted you to do._

_It's still the last thing I want you to do._

_I'm running out of paper, Liz. You'll have to send me some with your next telegram, alright? _

_Still keeping safe._

_Gilbert._

The Prussian folded the telegram immediately, in case one of the boys in the squad should read it over his shoulder. He had to maintain the image of a bachelor amongst them for his pride. The big question however was, should he send it. When he read it back it was far too soppy, he'd poured far too much of his feelings into it after hearing that Elizaveta was really concerned about him. Seeing the words on that paper, so elegantly written, made his heart rise and a grin form on his face. There was a lot of care in her handwriting, he'd never really noticed how scrawled his was in comparison. But there's only so much room for neatness on the front.

He supposed he owed it to her, to send the letter with his genuine response after she poured out all her concerns into hers. She'd even put a kiss at the end of hers. Gilbert really wasn't sure what to think when he saw that, his mind racing to a million different reasons why she'd put it there. Only those who were interested in you really put them on, but was it a friendly family-like kiss, or... did it mean more?

Still, if it didn't mean that, then all the words he'd just scribbled onto the scrap of paper would seem really creepy and like he was coming on to her and she'd get mad and never send another back. Fuck, why was it so hard to make a good impression? Why had things got so difficult between them, and why was it still so difficult now that they'd managed to move on?

No, he'd have to send it to her.

After all this time he owed it to her to be honest at least once.

/-/

**February 27****th**** 1944**

The telegram was a blessing to arrive that day.

To be honest it wasn't the only one to arrive, she'd received 3 in total. One from Gilbert of course, but the other two were on a far more serious note. Elizaveta was very aware she was walking a thin line here, but desperation had reached her over the past few years. She'd always been on the front line, always felt the thrill of adrenalin as she cut down her enemy. And her enemy were always employed soldiers, people who joined the army for a living. Sure she'd seen her fair share of blood spill over the years, even when she was married, Austria didn't try to stop her from fighting.

So maybe it was because she was finally feeling the sheer destruction of it all.

Or maybe it was just the worst war she'd ever been in.

Either way, she was desperately clinging on to the fact that she needed to do something to help. She'd heard about what was happening in Italy, apparently the southern boy had separated himself from Feliciano, something she knew he wouldn't do after everything they'd gone through to become unified but there they were. The bolts in Germany's perfect war strategy were coming loose and Elizaveta could see it all beginning to fall apart.

So, in her moment of desperation, she'd reached out and called for help.

_To Ms Elizaveta Héderváry_

_Your telegram was safely received by us back home, and whilst I thank you for your concern I'm afraid that the rift created between the two families in question cannot be healed so easily. We would be in need of further assurance that your trust lies in us to do the thing that is right for the greater good. After all we have had other members of your family come forward with such concerns, and whilst my younger brother has been eager to accept without discussing too many terms, our position has changed and I don't entirely see what our friendship would gain for our family. _

_Apologies._

_Arthur Kirkland._

She sighed, opening her cigarette case as she moved to the porcelain sink of the bathroom, striking a match as she burnt the useless message and opened the second.

_Yo Lizzie_

_Yeah, sorry to hear about your problems and all doll, but we've kinda got our hands full over here. And we can't really be doing any favours unless you've got anything of worth to send us? Least that's what Artie told me to tell you should you try and play us off individually, which... I guess ya did. Unless you didn't contact Artie in which case I'm flattered, but we've pretty much got this 'problem' under our belts so. Don't you be worrying you're silly little woman's head over that okay?_

_Alfred F. Jones xxx_

She's never struck a match so quickly after reading that.

They made her so mad. All these brash boyish nations parading around killing one another like it was some joke, like the fight for their pride wasn't costing the lives of millions. She refused to believe that she'd once been so naive like them. As she stood locked alone in the bathroom of the field hospital she shook with anger. She wanted to hit something, to run out into the middle of a battle field and scream at the top of her lungs. To let the world know just how stupid and cruel it was. But all there was to console her was the one remaining telegram on her creaky iron bed, which she returned to after washing away the remains of the previous pathetic messages.

Hungary returned quietly, straightening herself and her nightgown as she sat down on the thin mattress and cotton bed sheets. She took the small rectangular envelope in her fingers, running over the sides as she dared herself to open it. The paper felt surprisingly soft, worn from its travel, it smelt of gunpowder and the damp. He face twitched into a small smile when she remembered the last letter she'd received, it was all rambling and defences as he tried to make sense of the telegram that was sent to him claiming to be an out of the blue attempt to get back in touch with him. She'd spent the afternoon giggling at the thought of Gilbert as he wrote it. Some of the girls at the hospital had come to the conclusion she was madly in love with a German soldier on the front.

Her opinion on this matter was...

Well...

_Dearest Gilbert_

_I'll be sure to put the idea of your confusion and the endless ramblings you put to paper to the back of my memory. I'm very much sure that they were in fact not your own words at all, that some fool from your squad stole the pen and impersonated you as a bumbling idiot who had no idea what was going on._

_Still, I award you for your honesty, bizarre comments and suggestions aside. (Of course I would do such a thing, we all know you'd be the one waiting at home and cooking)_

_Yes, I'm aware that my hopes are nothing but idle wishes, especially when it's you of all people who I'm asking to seek out peace. Sometimes I swear war runs in your blood. But then again, I guess it runs through all our blood. I wonder if there will ever be a time when we're not fighting._

_You know, now I look back on it, I was an idiot for what I did to you. I alienated myself from you because I thought you despised me for tricking you into believing I was something I wasn't. Which I didn't. After a while the rift that I caused between the two of us turned into spite and I'm so sorry for that. I'm sorry for any pain I caused you. Though I intended it at the time, it's only now I realise its true consequences. _

_You should try working at a field hospital some time gil. Really clears your head._

_I'm sending you that paper you asked for, so you have no excuse not to get back to me when you receive this. So help me if I find out you're avoiding me, I'll seek you out myself. I'll make the allies look like a walk in the park by comparison after what I do to you._

_Because, well... I don't want to lose you now. _

_Yours._

_Eliza x_

/-/

**March 20****th**** 1944**

_Eliza,_

_I'm sorry about the delay, I really am. Lord save me now if you swoop down a day or so after this telegram has departed only to kill me because you thought I was avoiding you. That would just be awkward for the both of us when you finally receive the letter._

_You see, my squad got moved from the western front to the Italian front. Got a bit of bother going on over there, Allies think it's a smart move coming up the peninsular so they can avoid invading Spain or something. Naturally it's not going to work, we'll kick their asses as soon as they get over here. _

_Did you hear about Lovino? Yeah, apparently he's chucked in his towel and gone to fight on the other side. Ludwig asked me the other day why I wasn't so irritated about it, he said 'wouldn't you be mad if I up and left for the other side out of nowhere?' And you know what? I told him I didn't blame him. I told him that he was only looking out for his baby brother in the end, that he didn't want to see Feliciano get hurt over this war. Of course he went on one of his ramblings about how this was a really big setback for us, but honestly? I just think it's all a question of trust. It's a big deal, laying your trust in someone who's brought a lot of trouble your way, especially when they're pretty good friends with your only younger brother who you've fought to be with for the last century. Once we've proven that he can trust us, he'll come back. _

_You trust me don't you, Liz?_

_Of course, I'd understand if you didn't. As much as you say you caused a rift between us, it was my own stupid fault that we got into this mess. Really, I should have seen it coming for decades. And then when I found out, well, I didn't know what to do. I was just coming to terms with some of the feelings I had for you at the time and... I screwed up big time._

_Next thing I knew we were on opposite sides of the battle field. _

_We were always on opposite sides of the battle field._

_So, knowing that you're back. Knowing that you want to talk to me. Knowing that you're on __**my side**__ this time... it's the strength I need for this fight._

_Cause like hell am I loosing you either._

_Listen, I was thinking, maybe I could get Ludwig to get my squad posted over there after this problem with the Italians. I'll come over and make up for lost time, okay? _

_Still got all that paper you sent me._

_Gilbert x_

Lord have mercy on him, he actually had the strength to put a kiss on the end of that one. He was turning into a real hopeless romantic.

Still, after 600 or so years of waiting, you would too.

When he marched through the camp to give his telegram to the messenger he had an extra spring in his step, despite the way that the mud tried drag him back down. He was grinning manically and he couldn't stop himself, for once he just felt on top of the world. I mean after all, that telegram he received was practically a confession. 'Dearest' Gilbert? 'Yours' Eliza? And the way she _responded_ to his message. It was too perfect. Too good to be real. Too amazing and elevating.

He could see why a woman was all the moral a soldier could need now; he understood why the other troops would wait until mail day with eager hands.

It all made sense. The way humans would act, how they'd get that great patriotic sense because they had something to _defend, _something _worthwhile. _

Okay, Gilbert would be lying if he said he was someone who didn't have any sense of patriotism. However it had been kind of hard to find his root after the abdication of William the second, always a royalist at heart. It was just hard for him to come to terms with fighting for a country he saw no strong figure to guide. It always used to be for King and Country and now...

But that didn't matter, he'd found his anchor now. He'd persuade Ludwig into letting him go to the Eastern front and then he could visit Eliza and-

"Ah, Gilbert, you're here."

"Think of the devil and he shall arrive!" Gilbert cheered as he marched forward to close the space between him and his younger, but definitely not smaller, brother, embracing him with that cocky and glee driven grin still plastered on his face. "Guten tag, bruder. What nature calls you from your tent?"

"Stop talking like that." The younger nation's weary grimace fell across his expression as soon as the albino opened his mouth.

"Stop what?"

"Talking like that."

Gilbert simply grinned like a child who'd eaten all the cookies from the jar and had no regrets once he'd been caught, waiting for his brother to say what he meant to say.

"Listen, Gilbert, We need to talk." Ludwig gave him a tired expression, like he really didn't want to spend time talking to his brother but had to anyway.

"Fine. Talk. Talking was what we were doing? Why say you need to talk when it's what we were doing already?"

"No I mean we need to talk about something."

"What?"

"Something serious."

Gilbert stopped, the expression Ludwig was putting on wasn't a stern 'come on we have to talk about plans of battle, get your act together and stop acting like a child', rather he looked tired, worn out, and Gilbert was only just beginning to notice the physical strains that this war had put on the german.

"Why what is it? What's happened?"

Ludwig's eyes fell to the ground, he didn't look too sure about telling him anymore. Gilbert wondered for a moment what he must look like.

"That's another telegram for Miss Hungary isn't it? You should probably send i-"

"Whats. Happened. Ludwig."

Gilbert gave a warning growl, his stomach clenching as his mind made up a million things that Ludwig needed to tell him. God, please let it be something boring, let it be something irrelevant to him, or let it be something to do with Italy maybe, he's gone to the allies hasn't he? Dear god please don't say its anything to do with-

"On March 15th, Operation Margarethe was put into action. Admiral Miklós Horthy was invited to Klessheim by the fuehrer. Whilst negotiations to do with the armistice they'd been planning with the Allies were underway..."

Gilbert began to slowly let the words sink in, watching his brother as he seemed to grimace at the words that were rolling off his tongue. He paused, taking a breath and running his hand through his hair, trying to keep it out of his eyes whilst he worded his next sentence very carefully.

"German troops... occupied the Kingdom of Hungary."

He could almost hear another rift between them being ripped apart.

The telegram fell to the sodden earth, useless litter to anyone now.

_- To Be Continued -_


	2. Chapter 2 Madrid in October

**Stories Far Less Told**

* * *

_**A/N: **A spain and romano chapter for you guys! Warnings for Spamano if you're not exactly into that. Unless you hadn't got the idea then this fic is going to be an anthology of different stories that all happen in the same time line, and all in a very 'canon' approach. I'm not claiming that this fic is canon but all the events are part of my 'headcanon'. So enjoy~ If any of you have any suggestions as to what characters you'd like to see in later chapters then feel free to drop a message~!_

* * *

**1943**

It's October in Madrid, and it's raining.

When the rain falls here, it brings the city to a standstill. The Spanish here would rather seek the warmth and dryness of the indoors than to become sodden with the dark weather of winter. The same approach had been used with much of the current affairs. Lovino doubted he'd ever seen the streets of Madrid so quiet.

It's not home. Lovino doubted he could ever call this squalid little flat Antonio's home. The room is damp, and smells odd. There's a distinct sound of dripping into a tin bucket and all else is quiet, he hasn't even put the wireless on, the meter has probably timed out. The south Italian moved quietly throughout the small space, grimacing at the moth eaten furniture and pealing wallpaper. The room is sparsely laid out; a couple of armchairs, table, a couple of spindly little things that looked like they'd break if you sat on them, a kitchen – the washing up hasn't been done, not that the Sicilian can see how you'd find much motivation to do it in such accommodation- and a door that lead through to a small messy double bedroom.

He can smell smoke in the air, an ash tray by the bed is littered with disused the sticks of tobacco, for a second Lovino feels home return to him, the smell of the Spaniard after he'd been to one of his many war meetings, stinking of the stuff, until a particularly wet chill brushes past him and he realises the balcony door is wide open.

He approaches, slipping past the sodden cotton curtains that blow in the breeze. He moves silently, the way he's used to when he is about to say something he doesn't want, but the Spaniard beats him to it, the Spaniard gets there first.

"I know why you're here..."

It's not Spanish that rolls off his tongue, but Italian. It sent an odd chill down Lovino's spine. He swallowed; he had a job to do after all.

"I've been sent by the armed forces of the Axis alliance to request your assistance in the second great war, if you-"

"So formal, Lovino..." He turned, leant against the balcony with a cigarette in his fingers, how it kept alight in the rain amazed him, yet there it was. "Is that the way you greet an old friend...?"

How long had the Spaniard been stood out there? He was soaked to the skin, an old sand coloured shirt clinging tight to him as the water ran freely in streams from his sodden hair. Lovino shifted, holding his rimmed cap closer over his head as he stepped on to the balcony, grimacing at the rain.

The last time they had met had been, awkward to say the least. Italian troops marched forward into the Spanish mainland, aiming to assist the fascist regime. Feliciano had sent him, just like this time, he said he could help to get the idiot out of the mess he had created for himself, and with the Italian's new found and independent military power, Lovino was only too happy to go along and help the Spaniard kick the asses of those who were causing a problem for him. It had given him a great thrill when he'd had the opportunity to wipe the smirk off that Frenchman's face and sending him running back to the British who in time, also realised how they just couldn't win against the might of Italia ... and you know, the rest of the countries that backed the fascist side.

The thing that made it awkward exactly was more of the fact that he hadn't seen the idiot or spoken properly to him since he'd left, and his visit had been strictly on business. When Lovino was there the only real time he got to spend with the Spaniard was side by side in battle. The Italian had seen an entirely different side to him then, one that he only realised how cracked it was on reflection now, away from the adrenaline rush of war.

"I... I am meant to be here on business."

"Of course."

Silence fell over the two again as Antonio looked out on to the drenched and silent streets, inhaling deeply on his cigarette and holding the smoke. His response to Lovino had been quick, perhaps with a hint of bitterness, the Italian considered it as the bitterness a father would feel towards a child who had disowned him. After all, the Spaniard had every right to think of him as that, they hadn't properly talked since he had been handed over, but things had been complicated. Between being passed from country to country, Lovino had made efforts again and again for his independence, eventually after a long and tiresome effort, gaining it too, and then before the brothers had even managed to settle they'd been thrust into wars and alliances they didn't entirely want.

Besides, it wouldn't have been in the best of taste for Lovino to see his former caretaker anyway. He hadn't just lost Lovino back then, but almost the entirety of his European empire, to people he had once called allies and his most hated enemies. On the grapevine, Lovino had heard that this was the spark that marked the beginning of his total decline; he'd lost almost everything since. All those wonderful countries he'd come home and babble on about endlessly, with that irritating sparkle in his eye, like a child who had been given a surprise, they were all gone. If Lovino had gone back to Antonio then, rubbing his independence in his face like that, well... Despite everything the Italian had ever done or said, he knew where to draw the line.

The silence seemed to be getting to Antonio, who was frowning and letting the smoke out of his mouth in a shuddery breath as he glared at the street. He stubbed out his cigarette on the iron railing, despite how much of it there was left and flicked it away as he pushed himself up, still not looking at Lovino even when he moved to walk past him back into the apartment.

"I'm not joining."

Lovino spun around, watching Antonio as he walked back through the apartment, leaving his room to go through to the living space. Over the rain he heard the click of a gas cooker and the crunch of a can being opened. The words sunk in eventually, stinging the Italian as he moved through to the kitchen, scowling at the man who was now emptying a tin of something into a pan.

"What do you mean you're not fucking joining?"

"I mean what I said, Lovi. What is there to misunderstand?"

It wasn't the fact that Antonio still decided to use his idiotic pet name that irritated the Italian this time, but the bluntness of his speech. His tone was of a man who had already set his mind on what he was going to do, moreover his tone was like someone who had just up and decided they weren't going to do business, that was all there was to it, there was no emotional ties or desires to help at all. It was as if Antonio just didn't care, and that just hit Lovino straight where it hurt.

"But you owe us!"

"I owe a lot of people." Antonio laughed, reaching up to the cupboard as he stirred the brown gloop in the pan.

"And you think that's justification for you not helping us?" Lovino scoffed, folding his arms, narrowing his eyes when the Spaniard still didn't turn to face him. "I don't care if this is what you do to everyone who helps you! Y-you should help us!"

Antonio pulled a small bottle from the cupboard, setting it down as he continued to stir for a few minutes, letting it stew just like Lovino was presently. "I know. But I'm not going to."

"Wh-" Lovino blinked, staring at his ex-carer in disbelief. "Why the fuck not? Tch. You're not still fucking hurt over the fact you lost me are you? Come on you can't even look me in the fucking eye and it wasn't even my damn fault! You should have done better to keep me on your side, should have been more fucking careful as to who you picked fucking fights with."

He'd expected to get a rise out of that, to get Antonio to snap at him and yell at him, and generally act the way he was used to seeing Antonio act. But he didn't. He continued to stir the pot until the gloop bubbled and was brought to boil, before pouring it onto a plate. It looked disgusting, smelt disgusting and it probably tasted disgusting. Antonio turned, taking the plate, a glass of water and the small bottle labelled 'Aspirin' to the table. The Italian stared, watching as Antonio scooped up some of the food and took two of the tablets, swallowing them down with some of the god awful looking food and a shudder, he then took a long gulp of water and looked up at Lovino, dead in the eye.

"It's not what you think, Lovino." He sighed, continuing to eat the food. "This has nothing to do with you, or Germany, or even the Allies."

Lovino's frown set further as he pulled up a chair and sat opposite the Spaniard, staring at him.

"We've known that this would happen for a while. We all knew that Germany was pushing his luck against the previous treaty and that... eventually, he would seek out our help." Antonio sighed again; he did a lot of that lately. "I cannot afford to be in this war, to be involved in what is going to happen. I'm not joining. And I'm sure if your next move is to ask Franco himself he'll still turn you away."

Antonio looked weary, he hadn't brushed his hair in a while and moved sluggishly, like a man who did little but try to sleep these days. He should probably change out of his wet clothes, Lovino noted subconsciously, shaking the thought from his head as the Spaniard continued.

"Franco has decided that it's in mine... in Spain's best interests that we stay out of this war. Unless we were given certain... promises that I'm sure even el Führer grande himself would not bend to... Lo siento, Lovi." He smiled a little sadly, before putting his fork down, grimacing at the unfinished meal and getting up to go back into his room.

Lovino was left a little shell shocked in the living space; staring at the space Antonio had been sat. That was that, the final words for now. Antonio wasn't joining the war. He was disappointed, but couldn't exactly place why. Sure it bugged him that he'd made all that effort to help in the civil war, but it wasn't exactly the kind of disappointment that hung with wasted resources, it was almost as if he didn't really mind so much about that. So why was he so ...?

"Tch."

Lovino rose from his chair, replacing the cap onto his head and adjusting his uniform, prepared to leave now his business was done. He made his way towards the door, aiming to leave Spain as quickly as possible and occupy himself with other things to distract from the empty feeling.

He caught a glimpse just as he passed the door through to the bedroom.

Antonio was changing out of the damp shirt taking a drag from another cigarette – where he got so many when Franco was rationing so strictly both surprised him and caused him to suspect that Antonio was sacrificing his food supply for them – shedding it like a second skin as he threw it off blindly and reached for a towel to dry off his hair, suspenders hanging loosely by his hips. When the Italian caught himself watching his cheeks reddened.

What happened next, Lovino wasn't entirely certain of. All the Italian knew was that Antonio looked up at him and suddenly he was next to him, looking straight into those pools of green. 300 years of pubescent tension he had long forgotten resurfaced and he was staring at the Spaniard as if he may never see him again. Those eyes stared back at him with a small trace of confusion, and maybe... worry? The eyes darted away and Lovino followed them, catching a glimpse of what it was that Antonio had to take the aspirin for.

"Dio... Antonio, what did you do?"

The mood was broken as Lovino stared at the large sore looking burn that seared over the spaniard's right shoulder and down his chest. It was an undressed wound, looking like it had been left to just heal over time. The frowning Italian found his hand reach out to brush over the sore skin, extracting a hiss from his ex-carer.

"The Bombings..."

"I haven't read about anything."

"Haha... No, these are old..."

Lovino frowned further, staring at the burn, which became apparent it was a series of burns not just one. If they were old then they were taking a long time to heal, so for a nation, this meant that the issues with his people and the 'wounds' caused by the destruction had not healed.

"You're still having problems, aren't you?"

"We're all having problems..." The Spaniard shrugged as if it was nothing.

"Antonio..." Lovino scolded.

"Lovino."

They shared a look, staring for a long time. The Italian's hand still barely touching the skin, a small piece of contact between the two. There was unnerving silence, not at all aiding to the tension that built and built between the two. Lovino could feel his breath catching in his throat, why was he even still standing there? What was he doing? Why didn't he just excuse himself and leave?

He didn't know.

What he did know is that they were definitely kissing now.

Lovino's hands had flown for the Spaniard's hair and Antonio, in turn, had gripped the Italian's back as their lips smashed together with brute force, just like a sprung elastic band. They were all over one another, not really thinking about what they were doing, just letting the spur of the moment carry them off, even in to their potential destruction. But that didn't matter for them, not right now, right now all that mattered was the tension that was being released between the two of them.

Their night was a quick, hurried, satisfying blur, a heated fuck on the bed, among one another's clothes and the bed sheets. Their hands were all over one another, Lovino atop the elder, worried about Antonio's injuries and wellbeing even in their heated state. When they came down from their fast fuelled state of bliss they both quickly fell into sleep, or at least Lovino presumed so, his eyes sliding shut before he had the chance to check the other's had too.

He left quietly early the next morning, slipping into his crinkled uniform. He'd spent a good 20 minutes sat at the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples. He was trying hard to get to grips with what had happened the night before. They'd had sex. The man who was his old guardian, raised him since he was little, been there for his highs and lows during that period of time, and the only parent figure who had stuck around, put up with him as a person rather than keep him for his land... and they'd just had sex after practically not talking for 150 years.

How was he supposed to face that?

It wasn't like it had been an emotional rollercoaster; there had been no confessions of feelings, or epiphanies. It was just sex. Nothing but no strings attached, tension relieving, but amazing sex.

He had to get out of there.

Slipping from the sorry apartment and out onto the dripping dimly lit streets, the Italian did what Italian's do best and ran from the building that most definitely wasn't Antonio's home.

* * *

_To be continued..._


End file.
